


Overdrive

by yourlightningsmile



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brain Damage, F/M, Fitz Rehabilitation AU, Occupational Therapy, POV Jemma Simmons, POV Leo Fitz, Therapy, hypoxia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6766912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlightningsmile/pseuds/yourlightningsmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AU) Aspiring to be a full-fledged Agent Rehabilitation Specialist, occupational therapist Jemma Simmons finds herself feeling particularly empathetic towards a specific patient in her rotation, the highly-valued SHIELD engineer Leopold Fitz. After seeing his improvement plateau under another’s care, she attempts an unconventional kind of therapy that she hopes will rebuild his confidence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a while, guys. I've been working full time and applying to graduate school in a foreign country, which has taken a huge toll on my time. I’m making a career change. I’m making a bunch of life changes. But I still love writing. And I still love FitzSimmons. So here we are - to celebrate, I’m starting something new. (And for those who are still interested in my other unfinished early season 3 AU, More Than You Bargained For, I’ll be revisiting that one soon).
> 
> Important Plot Note: This story is based off the premise that the HYDRA invasion, though still catastrophic to Coulson’s team, was a more localized issue, wreaking havoc on SHIELD as an agency, but not dismantling it completely, as it did in the show. Sorry Coulson, the bureaucratic red tape's still there.
> 
> Disclaimer: I’m not a car person. At all. Neither do I have any experience conducting occupational therapy. I have done a good deal of research for several aspects of this fic, but I apologize in advance for any butchering of the above disciplines that will inevitably show itself. I hope you’ll understand that it’s all in the name of fun and infinite FitzSimmons love.
> 
> Warnings: Due to the subject matter of physical therapy, rehabilitation, etc., there will be occasional allusions and discussions of difficult topics, such as depression, suicide, etc., that are necessary to the storyline. I can assure you that I attempt to handle them carefully. Though they play a part, they are not the main focus of this story.

“Dr. Simmons,” Dr. Weaver’s face crinkled in polite confusion. The pristinely dressed woman glanced away from her computer and down at the personal calendar lying on the corner of her desk, “Are we due for another check-in already? I could have sworn we just met...” Her eyes scanned over the tidy cursive, searching.

“...Last week," Jemma finished the thought, foot bouncing feverishly beneath her. “No, you’re correct,” she responded, stilling herself and straightening her posture in an attempt to counteract her nervousness. She took a deep breath.

“I requested a special appointment because I would like to submit a formal treatment proposal.”

 _It’s better not to mince words in an academic setting_ , her mother had always warned her. _Especially as a female in a male-dominated field_. _The more far-fetched the request, the more important it is to state it clearly, concisely, and confidently, as though you’ve already been granted what you’re asking for._

Jemma balanced gingerly on the edge of the familiar seat she usually occupied for her bi-weekly student evaluations. It was one of those grey, metal and plastic, standard-issue chairs, made only slightly more visually appealing by a thin cushion that did little to provide comfort. Jemma understood the reasoning behind the furnishings, however. Dr. Weaver was only one career advancement away from being Head of the SHIELD Therapy and Rehabilitation Division, and, as such, was in high demand for both time and attention. Comfortable chairs that might invite a visitor to stay longer than their welcome would be unwise from an efficiency standpoint. If things went smoothly today, though, Jemma wouldn’t have to sit in this seat for long. Clutching the folders she carried a bit tighter than was strictly necessary, she dove into her carefully rehearsed explanation.

“I know that, as a first-year in the program, this is technically overstepping my boundaries, since drafting treatment programs is an activity that is not broached in the curriculum until third year. However, due to the unusual status of the patient, the…” Jemma cleared her throat, not wanting to bring up the ever-looming topic of HYDRA, but unable to get around its relevance to the current situation, “... _unfortunate reduction_ in staff of late, and SHIELD’s extreme desire to have their top agents as healthy and productive as possible, I thought perhaps an early submission wouldn’t be taken in bad faith. Especially given the subject in question.” 

She placed the patient’s case file onto the desk in front of her. Clearly intrigued, Dr. Weaver opened the folder and, after glancing at the top sheet, let out an understanding murmur.

“Ah, yes. Agent Fitz.”

_Don’t give them the chance to say no, Jemma, give them every reason to say yes before a negative statement can even form in their brains, much less reach their mouths._

“I'm also aware that Kenneth...” Jemma caught herself, worried that some of her feelings towards the adversarial older therapist had leaked out, and adopted her most respectful tone, “...I'm sorry, _Dr. Turgeon,_ has already submitted his final report regarding Agent Fitz earlier this week. However, it has come to my attention that the report advises discontinuation of the agent's current treatment regimen and a permanent transfer to the Sandbox. There, if I understand correctly, focus would be shifted to a series of anger management courses followed by re-integration therapy tailored specifically to the demands of a desk job in the Scientific Archives Department.”

Dr. Weaver regarded her passively, if a little curiously, “This is accurate.”

Jemma worked to dispel the anger that rose up unbidden, as it had when she first heard the news. She mentally cringed as she imagined the catastrophic blow Agent Fitz' self-worth would take if the recommendations were followed through.

She swallowed heavily, “When...when I heard about this, I became very concerned, because, though I have respect for Dr. Turgeon as a knowledgable therapist in _most_ cases, I'm in complete disagreement with his findings regarding this one. I will admit that, yes, Agent Fitz has plateaued. Yes, he's prone to bouts of volatile anger. Yes, he still has far to go in the way of regaining fine motor skills, verbal acuity, and some of his long-term memory. But I believe in this instance, the personalities of both the patient and the doctor have created an unfavorable bias, which has resulted in an unfairly negative assessment of the situation.” 

At the still-unchanging expression on her superior's face, Jemma leaned forward in her chair, subconsciously urging Dr. Weaver to trust her opinion.

“From my position sharing a lab and therapy space with Dr. Turgeon, working from the office adjacent to him, and speaking with him on numerous occasions, I observed that a toxic relationship was formed from the very first interaction he and the agent had with each other. Agent Fitz is, admittedly, a somewhat tough and uncooperative patient, but I believe that Dr. Turgeon's manner with him as well as their conflicting, um...male pride...,” Jemma shot a sheepish look at her superior, “...caused a...,” she struggled for a more professional descriptor than 'mutual disgust' or 'blind hatred', finally landing on, “... _tension_ amongst the two that they could not overcome. Given this, I felt I couldn't let it rest without submitting my own personal assessment of his progress.”

Jemma placed her carefully typed and meticulously formatted project proposal on top of Agent Fitz' file, her hand shaking slightly. Dr. Weaver regarded the document with a cautious interest, flashing an impressed, if not slightly perplexed, look at Jemma as she quickly scanned the cover page and table of contents. At this positive sign, Jemma pressed on anxiously, eager now to get to the point. 

“I know I'm still new here at SHIELD, but my personal observations and past experiences have led me to the conclusion that Agent Fitz is not a hopeless case, and that he shows promise if only he could overcome whatever block is currently holding him back. I believe that I can figure out what that block is and help him surpass it... if given the chance.”

Dr. Weaver's eyebrows went up slightly at this assertion and she began to peruse the report more thoroughly, dark eyes skimming the subsections of the proposal that Jemma could almost recite from memory, having written and rewritten them until the words became a blur on the page. After a few minutes of attempting to analyse each minute change in the administrator's expression, Jemma couldn't take the tension anymore.

“I know that it must seem like a slightly unorthodox method of assessment, but after reading through Agent Fitz' personal file and doing a little digging of my own, it seems to me that he sorely needs to get away from his current environment. If he were to experience a little independence and a taste of responsibility with real potential consequences, albeit in a somewhat controlled environment...,” Jemma faltered, “If he sees that people trust in him as a person and an agent—not specifically for his mind and ability to regain his skills as an engineer—he might just be able to trust in himself again and resume making progress in his rehabilitation.”

Jemma had a quick, worrying thought, and wanted to make sure that her intentions were clear.

“I hope you'll believe me when I say that this is not something I'm doing just to get ahead or overstep my bounds as a first-year student. This is entirely unrelated to my advancement in the program and I...”

“Dr. Simmons,” Dr. Weaver's firm voice rang out.

Jemma took a deep breath and looked up at her superior from where her gaze had been fixed on the desk below.

The woman's expression was kind. “I know you, and I would never suspect that of you, though you are a highly motivated individual. What I am curious to understand is how you've managed to include more information about the nature of Agent Fitz' injury and treatment in this proposal than is detailed in his file.” She looked at Jemma suspiciously, pointing to the aforementioned documents.

Ah, yes, that.

“I contacted his superior.”

Dr. Weaver looked bemused. “You contacted the newly appointed second-in-command Phil Coulson?”

“Ah, no," Jemma blushed, "Actually, I contacted Director Fury himself. Not to go over anyone's head or anything! Just to talk to him, because the report said that he was the one who rescued Agent Fitz from the water and oversaw his treatment for those first few crucial hours before he was transferred to land medical. I wanted to get his first-hand testimony. It turns out that one of Agent Fitz' inventions actually saved his life at one point, and the director was more than grateful to do anything that he could to return the favor.”

At this announcement, Dr. Weaver's eyebrows had risen to such a degree that they were almost comical, and a tentative smile began to break over her face.

“Well, Jemma. I...don't know what to say exactly. Very few people would take that kind of initiative. Which leads me to my most pressing question.” She folded her hands before her on the desk.

“I am going to be straight with you. Even at first glance, this appears to be one of the most thoughtfully constructed treatment proposals I have ever seen. Almost alarmingly so, especially at your early stage in the program. You contacted the Director of SHIELD himself and somehow managed to wrangle a personal interview. Anyone could see your passion for this a mile away. Now, everyone cares about their patients or they wouldn't be in this field, but this goes above and beyond the usual commitment in a way that causes me some concern. Therefore, I have one question for you, and if I find your answer suitable, I will send this up the ladder for approval due to exceptional circumstances.”

Jemma waited, heart pounding hard in her chest. Why did it always come down to this? She could prepare for days, weeks, months...even years. But in the end, it _always_ came down to something she couldn't have foreseen. Something she couldn't anticipate.

Dr. Weaver leaned forward, gazing at Jemma steadily, if not completely impassively.

“Why does this particular case matter so much to you?”

Jemma swallowed. Of course. Some part of her had vaguely acknowledged that all this effort for one person might seem out of the ordinary. Especially for someone she had never truly met. But because she hadn't really understood it herself, she'd carried on, hoping naïvely that her unusual absorption in this patient's case wouldn't seem extraordinary to anyone else. That her interest wouldn't seem out of the realm of an exceptionally driven student.

Jemma had put off thinking about this possible question and, therefore, had resisted coming to any sort of conclusion. She hadn't prepared. This...this right here was going to be the reason all of her hard work would go to waste and an agent who had given his life for a country that wasn't even his would be unhelpfully and ungratefully tossed to the side.

Why _had_ she worked so hard to get the chance to conduct this particular rehabilitation? She had more than enough stress with her current patient roster. Was it the injustice of seeing an agent's abilities squandered? Yes, certainly, but it was more than that. Every time she'd heard the interactions between Agent Fitz and Dr. Turgeon, Jemma had wanted to be the one conducting the appointment instead, vainly (she would admit) convinced that she could be doing the job better.

The first time she had seen the scruffy, jumper-clad man with the metaphorical dark cloud over his head in the waiting area of the rehab building, he'd stood out. So much so, that Jemma had paused at the receptionist's desk to ask if the man needed to be re-directed to another branch of the facility. It wasn't that he didn't look as though he needed therapy, just that he seemed out of place amongst the slew of young agents who were comical in their predictability. Almost all of the under-30s that came through the Hub's clinic were straight from active duty as field agents. They all projected similar attitudes—exaggerated boredom and impatience—to ensure that everyone present knew they were only there to fulfill their standard, mandatory, minimum-two-session post-mission therapy for continued field clearance. Jemma could hardly restrain herself from rolling her eyes at their ridiculously misplaced bravado each time. Rehab wasn't some kind of punishment. Sometimes she couldn't make it through an appointment without turning her back to grimace in exasperation.

No, this specific young man's expression more closely resembled those of the grisled career agents, known colloquially as “lifers,” who took part in regularly-scheduled therapy sessions and rehab maintenance visits. Jemma had always felt particularly drawn to these cases. Jaded, agressively vulnerable senior agents who, after a life of stress, loss, and endlessly sacrificial work, were forced to slow down and finally deal with all they'd seen and done, all the while coming to terms with the fact that they were no longer the most skilled, capable, and qualified person in their field. Those were the patients she seemed to have boundless energy for.

“Who? That young man in the back?,” her co-worker responded to her inquiry, “No, he's in the right place.”

She leaned over to Jemma and whispered, “That's Agent Leopold Fitz. You know, the one from Coulson's elite team who almost drowned after that run-in with HYDRA? Had a rough time of it, that poor boy. You must've heard the stories.”

Jemma hadn't. But as always seems to happen, after hearing his name once she began to hear it everywhere. In the lunch line at the cafeteria, on the lips of high-level agents passing by as she walked down the hall, and finally, every week, when he began to show up repeatedly on Dr. Turgeon's patient roster. It was at that point when she happened by his unmanned file after hours, casually laying on a shared desk where it must have been mistakenly left by one of their newer filing assistants, she couldn't ignore it. After two long minutes of agonizing over the hippocratic oath and the technicalities of doctor/patient confidentiality, her curiosity got the better of her. She was a doctor after all. Just not his.

A minor detail.

She made sure not to move the file even one centimetre from where it sat, but she did stand there for over forty minutes, bag heavy on her shoulder and travel mug in hand, reading the document cover-to-cover in the half-light of a nearby lamp.

The file left her with just as many new questions as it had provided answers for old ones and a confusing admiration for the struggling agent that felt a little like longing. Jemma chastised herself. She would not be one of those women whose interest was piqued just because a man was attractive, clearly intelligent, and had a tragic backstory. Physically, he wasn't even her type.

But Jemma couldn't deny that, in the days and weeks following, she had begun to take an unnatural notice every time Agent Leopold Fitz was in the office, and he became more than just a story to her. She heard his brutally sarcastic quips to Dr. Turgeon through the thin wall separating their offices. She saw him stride sullenly out of the clinic, a large bag of prescriptions in his hand. She jumped when a huge crash sounded across the room from where she sat measuring a patient's hamstring flexibility, turning to discover that the furious engineer had thrown a metal hand dynamometer against a pan filled with diagnostic equipment. Surprisingly, the outburst only made her more intrigued by him. She had a keen desire to get to know him.

But Jemma couldn't expect Dr. Weaver to accept the response: _I just wanted to meet him. To be able to say that we know each other._

Instead she heard herself say, “Because he's me.”

At that, something clicked, words spilling out of her mouth like an avalanche. She ticked the phrases off on her fingers at rapid fire pace.

“British. Accelerated through school. Younger than everyone else in his field. Struggling to prove himself. And then to have your most prized possession almost taken away from you—your mind—the thing that you gave up friends and popularity and a normal life to develop because you wanted to be a part of something bigger than yourself,” Jemma caught herself, before she undermined her own credibility by babbling.

“I...,” she paused again, as a scenario played out in her head, “If something similar happened to me, I would be in the exact same situation he currently is. It might not manifest itself in the same way, but I would be angry and disappointed. With fate, with myself, with everyone else. I would be mourning and trying not to and working so hard to try to get better that I would set my healing back months, I just know it. If it were me, I wouldn't be able to listen to people constantly trying to tell me “just be satisfied with average” and “cheers for small victories” and all that. I would think...no, I would _know_ that they were full of it, because change doesn't just happen overnight and twenty-seven years of perfectionistic tendencies don't just go away because someone says they should, and after you've achieved the extraordinary no one will ever be satisfied with the ordinary, least of all yourself, and...,” Jemma drew in a large breath, realizing that she had yet again lost control of her professional manner.

She tried to rein her feelings back in. “He needs someone who will be patient with him, but challenge him at the right times. He needs to get away from the pressure, not just from others, but from the pressure he puts on himself. He needs to learn that life is more than just what he can accomplish with it. That he deserves to be proud just because he's himself and he's doing good things and he's making it from day to day.”

Dr. Weaver fixed Jemma with a piercing glare, and her speech abruptly faltered.

Jemma concluded, quietly, “At least...that's what I would want someone to tell me.”

Dr. Weaver nodded at Jemma knowingly. “You're right. That's a lesson we could _all_ do with learning again from time to time, don't you agree?”

Jemma couldn't respond; she had no more words. She was drained—much more exhausted than she would have ever anticipated from such a meeting. Was that comment Dr. Weaver's subtle way of implying that Jemma had too many responsibilities already? Was she denying Jemma permission to carry out her proposal?”

The administrator began slowly, “I, for one, have only met the agent in question twice, and briefly at that, but I would like to see him succeed. SHIELD values both him _and_ his expertise quite highly. I do have some unfortunate news, in that we will not be able to apply the work you do on this case to your educational requirements. That is not to say that this experience cannot be used on your resume in the future. In fact, if it's completed successfully you will almost certainly ensure yourself the choice of multiple high-level placements directly out of the program.”

Dr. Weaver gave a small smile, “You're exceptionally talented, Jemma. You will be a valuable asset regardless of the outcome of this...let's call it an experiment. However, I will urge you to be careful. You're taking a great deal of risks right now, and I would hate to see you lose your drive or your work ethic if things don't pan out exactly as you've planned or if this increase in work catches up with you. We can't have you burnt out before you've ever truly begun.”

Jemma nodded.

Dr. Weaver smiled. “Well then, I wish you the best. You have six weeks. Report to me Monday for an initial debrief after you've established first contact with the patient. I will oversee your progress, and you will meet with me twice weekly to provide updates on his and your status.”

Jemma stared. She had done it. Her request was approved.

She inhaled, for a second feeling almost dizzy with relief, before the weight of what she had just achieved firmly settled on her shoulders.

Six weeks. A month and a half to ingratiate herself with a SHIELD-renowned, boy genius, Level 5 engineer. One with a hypoxic brain injury, anger issues, and far too much common sense not to question why he had been suddenly transferred from the care of a fully-credentialed, seasoned SHIELD Rehabilitation Therapist with years of practical experience to a student trainee who hadn't even reached her first formal performance review.

“Thank you, Dr. Weaver,” Jemma nodded, already wondering what she had gotten herself into, “I'll begin preparations right away.” She gathered Agent Fitz' file and walked to the door.

“Tomorrow, Jemma,” Dr. Weaver called out, “Take the night off. Get some rest, that's an order.”

Jemma turned and nodded, flashing what she hoped was a convincing smile, knowing full well that she couldn't make that promise.

She had an appointment to prepare for.


	2. Interlude: Week 0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shoutout to devoid69 for expressing interest in seeing me write more from Fitz' POV.

The wire shook, hovering just above the needle-sized hole that, once threaded properly, would close the circuit within the half-gutted reflector panel. Then, with the energy conduction reestablished, he would be able to measure the...measure the...

Fitz paused for a moment, his face contorting in frustration as he searched for the word that hovered in the fuzzy recesses of his mind, stubbornly out of reach.

_Oh, come on, seriously? Even I know that one from high school physics. It's..._

“Shut up,” Fitz spat over his left shoulder. There was no shadow, but he could feel the ominous presence of his...companion...hovering just behind him over his desk.

“I don't need your help,” Fitz continued venomously, “I never needed your help.”

His companion snorted _. Now that's not true, and you know it._

Suddenly, the annoying sound of off-key singing cut through the air.

_A is for asphyxiation. M is for monkey. P is for pathetic._

“I said, go away!” Fitz shouted without turning, his right hand letting go of the panel to scrub at his face vigorously.

The singing stopped. _Suit yourself._

Fitz didn't move—he just waited until the sound of footsteps and slightly taunting laughter had completely receded behind him.

Fitz tried to ignore the hint he had received. He tried really hard, but, as always, his mind had processed the new information faster than he could choose to forget it.

A. M. P.

Amp...

Ampuole. Amperage. Amplification.

 _Amplitude!_ , it popped into his head. He sighed in relief. He would measure the _amplitude_ of the electromagnetic waves running through the panel.

As he forced his focus back onto the task at hand, Fitz realized that the fingers of his left hand were now clamped onto his pliers in a death grip. He forced himself to loosen his muscles until the blood had returned to his fingers, preceded by a wave of painful tingling down his arm and a flush of pink to his previously bone-white skin.

Acute peripheral neuropathy, they had called it. Caused by oxygen deprivation to the nerves. About a quarter of the time he overcompensated for the dullness and numbness, as he had just now, by holding onto things so tightly that they might break. The rest of the time he just dropped things.

 _An engineer's hands are his greatest and most accurate tools_ , he had once heard it said.

“What a fat load of rubbish that is,” Fitz griped, feeling the beginning of a telltale spiral down into 'one of his moods' as he had once overheard Skye refer to it. The reminder that the team discussed him behind his back just made him even angrier. Trying to ignore it, he picked up the reflector panel again, steadying it with his good hand so that he had even half a chance of fitting the wire into its correct place.

Still, the usual thoughts intruded. It wasn't fair. Fitz knew cloaking was the most important thing right now and that the entire weight of SHIELD's next move rested on his heavily-impaired shoulders. He knew that, as the Director's new right-hand man, Coulson had to devote most of his time to strategizing with the few higher-ups left in SHIELD after the fallen regime and that everyone had work to do right now, much of which involved putting a stopper on countless leaks of classified information by sleeper HYDRA agents. Logically, he knew all of these things. But every time Fitz caught two or more people having a conversation that abruptly halted upon his entry into a room, he couldn't help the overwhelming suspicion that they had just been discussing him and how utterly useless he had become.

His only chance to redeem himself in their eyes? Reverse engineer cloaking from a severely damaged prototype developed by a team of men who had recently revealed themselves loyal to “The Clairvoyant” and apply it to an entire quinjet in under a month with a minimum amount of help and a maximum amount of pitying looks.

Fitz wasn't trying to kid himself—he'd always known he wasn't the easiest person to get along with—but was it a crime to want his team to interact with him the way they used to? Skye with her endless energy and almost naïve admiration at some of his more ingenious devices, May with grudging but sincere approval, Coulson with pride and gratitude, and Ward with...

Fitz quashed that thought before it could fully form.

He reminded himself that he would never have a shot of getting back the kind of respect and camraderie he had been growing used to over the last few months aboard the Bus if he couldn't even manage to complete the single task he had been given.

 _Perhaps the..._ what attempt was he on?

He looked at the tally he'd been keeping.

 _Perhaps the 38_ _th_ _time's the charm..._ , he thought, attempting to generate some kind of—any kind of—optimism. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and repositioned his hands.

Ten minutes and seven attempts later, he almost whooped with joy as the tiny wire finally threaded appropriately. He reached carefully for a pair of tweezers to secure it.

And...almost there...just one more millimeter and...

_Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!_

Fitz jumped, startled at the sound of an alarm blaring from across the room. His reaction jostled the panel in front of him, managing to not only dislodge the wire from its newfound hole, but to rip it clean out of its casing.

Fitz swore loudly, his fist coming down with a crash on the metal table before shoving the offending device onto the floor where several of the pieces he had painstakingly put together over the past few days now shattered apart.

Stalking across the room with the intention of similarly putting an end to whatever machine it was that had ruined his concentration, he stopped short when he realized that the noise was coming from his own mobile.

A calendar alert had popped up, reminding him of his new rehab schedule, his first appointment with some new therapist scheduled to start in precisely an hour.

Fitz had forgotten. He'd barely paid attention when an office assistant had called to get his approval for a change in his treatment program. He'd agreed immediately without even absorbing the new information. As far as Fitz was concerned, it didn't matter when or where some tosser tried to insult his intelligence under the guise of trying to help him 'cope with the changes his injuries had wrought'. Dr. Turgeon could go straight down to the bottom of the ocean and see what it feels like himself if he was that curious.

Fitz was very tempted to just ignore the alarm, go back to his room, and crawl into bed, but he knew he was already treading water with SHIELD when it came to meeting the qualifications to remain an agent. Any day now he could find himself on a plane back to Scotland with a hefty severance check and no way to explain to his mother why her son can no longer tie his own tie.

Sighing, he grabbed his jacket, sparing one last glance at the scattered mess of pieces and parts now covering the floor around his desk.

The other scientists would be irritated. Perhaps the dark-haired bloke—who'd shamelessly asked Coulson if he could submit his resume to get on a waiting list for Fitz' position—would even trip over something.

With that single satisfying thought, Fitz exited the lab, letting the door slam behind him.


End file.
